“Maybe they did.”
“You mean it might have been stolen from there? Could be. I have a lot of work to do.”
She looked as though she could hardly wait. And yet, she also looked as though she was in no hurry to leave this cabin, this garden.
“I wonder who he was.” She reached out and pulled a couple of runner beans from a vine, handing one to her companion. “Most unhappiness comes from not being able to sit quietly in a room.”
“Pascal,” said Gamache, recognizing the quote, and the appropriateness of it. “This man could. But he surrounded himself with objects that had a lot to say. That had stories.”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“What’s the Amber Room?”
“How do you know about that?” She turned a searching eye on him.
“When you were looking around you mentioned it.”
“Did I? You can see it from here. That orange thing in the kitchen window.” He looked and sure enough, there it was, glowing warm in what little light it caught. It looked like a large, thick piece of stained glass. She continued to stare, mesmerized, then finally came out of it. “Sorry. I just never expected to be the one to find it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Amber Room was created in the early 1700s in Prussia by Friedrich the First. It was a huge room made of amber and gold. Took artists and artisans years to construct and when it was completed it was one of the wonders of the world.” He could tell she was imagining what it looked like, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “He had it made for his wife, Sophia Charlotte. But a few years later it was given to the Russian Emperor and stayed in St. Petersburg until the war.”
“Which war?”
She smiled. “Good point. The Second World War. The Soviets apparently dismantled it once they realized the Nazis would take the city, but they didn’t manage to hide it. The Germans found it.”
She stopped.
“Go on,” said Gamache.
“That’s it. That’s all we know. The Amber Room disappeared. Historians, treasure hunters, antiquarians have been searching for it ever since. We know the Germans, under Albert Speer, took the Amber Room away. Hid it. Presumably for safe keeping. But it was never seen again.”
“What’re the theories?” the Chief Inspector asked.
“Well, the most accepted is that it was destroyed in the Allied bombing. But there’s another theory. Albert Speer was very bright, and many argue he wasn’t a true Nazi. He was loyal to Hitler, but not to most of his ideals. Speer was an internationalist, a cultured man whose priority became saving the world’s treasures from destruction, by either side.”
“Albert Speer may have been cultured,” said Gamache, “but he was a Nazi. He knew of the death camps, knew of the slaughter, approved it. He simply looked good while doing it.”
The Chief Inspector’s voice was cold and his eyes hard.
“I don’t disagree with you, Armand. Just the opposite. I’m simply telling you what the theories are. The one involving Speer had him hiding the Amber Room far from both the German and the Allied armies. In the Ore Mountains.”
“Where?”
“A mountain range between Germany and what’s now the Czech Republic.”
They both thought about that, and finally Gamache spoke. “So how did a piece of the Amber Room get here?”
“And where’s the rest of it?”
Denis Fortin sat across from Clara Morrow. He was younger than he had any right to be. Early forties probably. A failed artist who’d discovered another, greater, talent. He recognized talent in others.
It was enlightened self-interest. The best kind, as far as Clara could see. No one was the martyr, no one was owed or owing. She was under no illusion that the reason Denis Fortin held a St. Amboise beer in Olivier’s Bistro in Three Pines was not because he thought there was something in it for him.
And the only reason Clara was there, besides unbridled ego, was to get something from Fortin. Namely fame and fortune.
At the very least a free beer.
But there was something she needed to do before she got caught up in the unparalleled glory that was Clara Morrow. Reaching into her bag she brought out the balled-up towel. “I was asked to show you this. A man was found dead here a couple of days ago. Murdered.”
“Really? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Not as unusual as you might think. What was unusual is that no one knew him. But the police just found a cabin in the woods, and this was inside it. The head of the investigation asked me to show it to you, in case you could tell us anything about it.”
“A clue?” He looked keen and watched closely as she unwrapped the bundle. Soon the little men and women were standing on the shore, looking across the expanse of wood to the micro-brew in front of Fortin.
Clara watched him. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the work, pursing his lips in concentration.
“Very nice. Good technique, I’d say. Detailed, each face quite different, with character. Yes, all in all I’d say a competent piece of carving. Slightly primitive, but what you’d expect from a backwoods whittler.”
“Really?” said Clara. “I thought it was very good. Excellent even.”
He leaned back and smiled at her. Not patronizing, but as one friend smiles at another, a kinder, friend.
“Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but I’ve seen so many of these in my career.”
“These? Exactly the same?”
“No, but close enough. Carved images of people fishing or smoking a pipe or riding a horse. They’re the most valuable. You can always find a buyer for a good horse or dog. Or pig. Pigs are popular.”
“Good to know. There’s something written underneath.” Clara turned it over and handed it to Fortin.
He squinted then putting on his glasses he read, frowned and handed it back. “I wonder what it means.”
“Any guesses?” Clara wasn’t about to give up. She wanted to take something back to Gamache.
“Almost certainly a signature, or a lot number. Something to identify it. Was this the only one?”
“There’re two. How much would this be worth?”
“Hard to say.” He picked it up again. “It’s quite good, for what it is. It’s no pig, though.”
“Pity.”
“Hmm.” Fortin considered for a moment. “I’d say two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Is that all?”
“I might be wrong.”
Clara could tell he was being polite, but getting bored. She rewrapped the carving and put it in her bag.
“Now.” Denis Fortin leaned forward, an eager look on his handsome face. “Let’s talk about really great art. How would you like your work to be hung?”
“I’ve done a few sketches.” Clara handed him her notebook and after a few minutes Fortin lifted his head, his eyes intelligent and bright.
“This is wonderful. I like the way you’ve clustered the paintings then left a space. It’s like a breath, isn’t it?”
Clara nodded. It was such a relief talking to someone who didn’t need everything explained.
“I particularly like that you haven’t placed the three old women together. That would be the obvious choice, but you’ve spread them around, each anchoring her own wall.”
“I wanted to surround them with other works,” said Clara excitedly.
“Like acolytes, or friends, or critics,” said Fortin, excited himself. “It’s not clear what their intentions are.”
“And how they might change,” said Clara, leaning forward. She’d shown Peter her ideas, and he’d been polite and encouraging, but she could tell he really didn’t understand what she was getting at. At first glance her design for the exhibition might seem unbalanced. And it was. Intentionally. Clara wanted people to walk in, see the works that appeared quite traditional and slowly appreciate that they weren’t.